What Will We Eat
by Reefarious
Summary: Dawn of the Dead, the deep South remix. Rated M for graphic violence, sexuality, and drug use.
1. Chapter 1

CPSO Officer Confirms Own Brother as One Perpetrator of Wilkinson County "Zombie Attack"

Posted August 10, 2011 2:44PM CDT

CONCORDIA PARISH, LA (KBUD , Amanda Broussard) An officer at the Concordia Parish Sheriff's Department, twenty-nine year old Joshua Brooks, received a devastating telephone call on Sunday night, August 7th. Officer Brooks had just fed and rocked his newborn son to sleep and was bringing a glass of ice-water up to his wife when the phone rang, around 10:45 PM that night.

"I was worried. Nobody ever calls us that late. Me and Sean always talk on Tuesday or Wednesday nights, so he was the farthest possibility from my mind. My first thought was that something was wrong with my parents or my mother-in-law, but when I saw the caller ID I knew it had to be about him."

Officer Brooks knew because his brother - Sean Brooks, age thirty-two - has been living in Wilkinson County, Mississippi, just over the state line, for seven years. The number he mentioned on the caller ID was from Wilkinson County General Hospital.

"My heart just sank when I saw it. My brother's young. He's healthy. He's a math teacher, ya know, so... Well, when I saw it was from the hospital, I knew something had to be bad wrong,"

Officer Brooks says that instead of a doctor or other hospital employee, the person calling from the hospital was a fellow police officer. "He said his name was Sgt. Rudd and that my brother had me listed as his emergency contact. He said he just needed me to get down there. He wouldn't tell me what had happened or if my brother was even dead or alive. I figured he must have been in a bad car accident or something. I got off the phone, told Millie where I was going, and sped all the way there."

When he arrived at the hospital, Officer Brooks says that Sgt. Rudd was waiting for him outside the emergency department doors. "I don't know if he'd been standing there the whole time it took me to make the drive or if he just happened to step out at the right moment, but as soon as I saw his face I knew it was even worse than I was thinking. He was white as a ghost, just looking downright _sick_. When I walked up to him, he knew right away who I was, and he just put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eyes and -"

Officer Brooks's emotions get better of him at this point in the interview, and even though he is clearly a strong, courageous officer of the law, he breaks down into heartfelt tears right before my eyes. Hearing his voice break as I play the tape to write this, my own eyes tear up all over again. I give him some time, but eventually I have to ask him to finish his story.

Ever courageous, he continues. "The guy just looks at me and finally he says, 'Two of my officers that were on patrol together responded to a call from the management at the Pine Border Motel.' I'm not going to go into all the details exactly to protect my brother's privacy, but what he basically told me was that Sean and a young lady had spent the night together in a motel room and... well, something went wrong."

A curious situation. An emotional Officer Brooks goes on to describe a nightmare he seems barely able to repeat. The police officer who met him at the hospital is Sergeant Will Rudd. Here's what he had to say about the scene, from the inside:

"We received a call about what sounded like a possible domestic dispute between a male and a female at the Pine Border Motel. The call was placed by management, who claimed that occupants in the rooms on either side of Mr. Brooks's had both called the desk to report the noise. By the time my guys got there, a little crowd had formed. The male occupant, Mr. Brooks, was unresponsive at the scene. The female was nowhere to be found, but the other occupants reported having seen her earlier in the evening, when she and Mr. Brooks apparently went out for a while. No one witnessed the alleged dispute, and no one saw what had left Mr. Brooks in that condition. One of the occupants had stepped out for a smoke when the ruckus quieted down, and she saw him there on the ground and let out a scream that got a crowd started.

"The officers on the scene radioed an ambulance, and then called in to report to me. Given the nature of recent attacks in other parts of the country, I wanted to be there at the hospital, see it for myself. He was tore up something awful. It was bad. Real bad. Bite marks all over him. He never _really_ regained consciousness, or it didn't seem like, at least.

"We waited and waited, hoping he'd wake up by the time his brother got there. It was about six hours later when he attacked the doctor. I'm not at liberty to discuss all this in full detail, of course. He turned very aggressive and unfortunately didn't survive his injuries. They'd just pronounced him dead and I stepped out for some air and that's when I saw Officer Brooks. I knew it was him right off. Looked just like his brother. It was real hard having to tell him about it, and having to ask him to identify his brother's body. Our thoughts and prayers are with his family and friends now."

[Amanda] - "Was there any indication that the victim had been using drugs such as Bath Salts, which have been presumed responsible for attacks in other parts of the country and now the world?"

[Sgt. Rudd] - "At this point in the investigation - and we're pretty well past toxicology and searches - there's no indication of drug use of any kind in the victim. That does not mean the woman we presume to be his attacker wasn't using them, though. We just didn't find any evidence she was, and toxicology reports from the hospital prove that Mr. Brooks was absolutely clean. We are looking for this woman now. We believe her name is Marcella Birch, black hair, hazel eyes, Caucasian, female, approximately thirty years old. We're working on a photo to circulate to the, uh, press, but she didn't have a picture ID in the purse we found so all that's off her credit cards and the descriptions given by witnesses at the scene. We've impounded the vehicle she left at the motel, and that vehicle was also registered to the name Marcella Birch."

[Amanda] - "Is Marcella Birch to be considered dangerous? What should readers do if they encounter Ms. Birch?"

[Sgt. Rudd] – (after a long pause) "Yes, yes, we're considering her dangerous. If you think you see her, just call in her location and we'll take it from there. Do not approach her or attempt to make contact."

Officer Brooks didn't know, or wouldn't say, any more than Sgt. Rudd. No employees from Wilkinson County General Hospital would agree to give me an interview. They're all very tight-lipped about the incident.

As a human being, I am afraid to pose the question that, as a reporter, I feel I am obligated now to ask: Does the absence of drugs on the scene give credence to Dr. Evan Frasier's recently proposed hypothesis - dubbed by some doctors, politicians, and news outlets "The Frasier Fallacy" or "Frasier's Folly" - that the drugs, the "bath salts", were merely a catalyst to jump-start the spread of a bacteria or virus that leads to the violent outbursts we've heard more and more about since they began in January of this year?

All this reporter can say is that the comfortable wall of distance between we in the deep South and these deranged biting attacks seems to be starting to crumble. I, for one, think it's time we sought answers.

Mo tapped the ashes off her joint. There was no such thing as good news lately. She'd started following the stories when the first incident had taken place in Chicago, back in January. She'd considered using it as fodder for her Freshman Psych term paper. The professor was a known zombiephile, and Mo thought it might be amusing to consider the possibility that the current pop-culture zombie craze was beginning to affect people.

Of course, she was fairly sure it was the drugs. Amanda Broussard was one of the better podunk reporters from this factory-driven hick town, but she was still a podunk reporter from this factory-driven hick town, after all. That Frasier guy might be onto something, but Mo wasn't even ready to start contemplating that end of things yet. This attack was by far the closest to home, but the overall number of bite attacks had gone down the past couple of months. She wasn't going to let it spoil her Zen. She slipped out of her pajamas, laid them across her footboard, and climbed into bed.

Seventeen miles from Mo's house, Ciji Metoyer had just read the same article (sans joint). Amanda Broussard was her favorite local journalist and reporter, and she wanted to observe the best in hopes that someday she could be amongst them.

After, she read a story about an eighty year old woman from the area who had been walking 4 miles of highway every day for 15 years to collect recyclables. She'd been using the meager payback to keep her water bill up. "These litter bugs have been keeping my water on for FIFTEEN YEARS!" Ciji gave a giggle.

She settled into her bed and turned on Anderson Cooper with her journal (a worn, half-full composition notebook) and pen in front of her on the mattress. During commercials she wrote her musings about the old woman and about what she'd done that day, and two sentences about Amanda Broussard's article: "There was a bite attack in Mississippi, somewhere near the border. Broussard wrote a really great article about it." Underneath she absently drew a little doodle of herself wearing a visor, hunched over a typewriter on a very-cluttered desk with a laptop to one side and a ringing phone to the other, and a camera hanging from her neck on a lanyard until she fell asleep.


	2. Marcella's Song

Marcella Birch was trouble before, during, and after her life. Her mother had never bothered to pretend she'd wanted to have her, or that it had been easy or in any way pleasant to be her mother.

While many children were growing up with warnings to get in before the street lights and the occasional reprimand or week of being grounded, Marcella was being raised on such gems as, "You're the reason only drunk men like Mommy!" and "I'm so excited about your first day of kindergarten! It'll be the first time in five years I've had you out from _up my ass_!" and "You tell them you fell down the front steps!" and "When was you gonna tell me you was dropped out of school and getting passed around the whole fucking football team, ya goddamn little _whore_?"

Ages sixteen through twenty-eight were pretty much an alcohol-induced haze punctuated by the occasional crack or meth binge and a handful of abortions.

She would never know who her father was, and she couldn't remember her mother's funeral when she was twenty-six, though the few people who'd been in attendance would never forget the way she'd stumbled over to the the coffin and spat right into her mother's face. An uncle who hadn't seen her since she was three was kind enough to remove her before anyone called the police and drop her off at one of her boyfriends' houses.

At twenty-nine, she finally wrecked the 1980 Firebird she'd been stealing from her mother for joyrides since she was fourteen and was bequeathed upon her mother's death. She was wasted out of her mind and ran a stop sign, plowing into a family in a minivan. The mom and one kid needed stitches. One of the other kids had a broken leg or something, she wasn't even sure.

Whatever the case, she'd cleaned up a bit during her year in jail, and a bit more still during her parole. Her original parole officer had noticed her improvement and, hoping to get her out of a bad situation and away from all her bad memories, he'd set her up with a job working in her sister's boutique in Wilkinson County, where she became known as nothing worse than a somewhat slutty party-girl.

She'd met Sean Brooks in a bar. She'd liked his heartfelt smile and the shine in his eyes. He'd liked her long black hair and slender, creamy legs...

She didn't drink enough to get too sloppy anymore, and she was frequently drug-tested by her new parole officer. Going out to bars was just because she felt right in them. She'd order herself a drink and just wait. For a man to buy her another one, for a game of pool or darts, for a piece of ass to bring home, for a new friend or an invite to a good party, for the kinds of things she liked to do.

He'd tried asking her out on real dates: movies; dinners; plays; picnics. But she only ever wanted to have a couple of drinks and go back to the motel. He thought she didn't think he was good enough for him, and she would never have a chance to clarify that it was just the opposite.

He was making her nervous. She was terrified that this would be the night he dropped the l-bomb on her. Love meant dates, soft kisses for no reason, gifts, walks, laughing together, and no more wild nights with strangers. No more drugs, probably ever, even after parole. She was doing better. She was doing well at her job. When she woke up in the mornings she knew where she was and could clearly recall at least a majority of the previous day, week, even _month_ now. But she wasn't quite ready to think about truly settling down. She didn't even know if she ever wanted to be.

She knew she was attractive to men. She knew if she ever wanted a permanent home or a family, it was just a matter of flashing her best smile in the right one's direction. She could have been married a dozen times over by now, if she'd wanted it. Something in her liked to be free, something in her loved going to a bar and not knowing who she'd leave it with. She was just learning to enjoy spending her money on hair and nails and shoes and the note on her Honda – all equally selfish but far less dangerous than drugs. All far more interesting drains on one's finances than diapers and conservative dresses.

She wanted Sean... at a _distance_. At least for now. And she didn't know what to say to him. She didn't know how to respond if he ever uttered the dreaded l-word in her direction. She preferred not to hurt good men in the process of having her fun. She had more than her average two drinks that night.

She'd calculated correctly that this was the night Sean would tell her he loved her. What she hadn't calculated was that his shining eyes and heartfelt smile, while genuine, were fickle things at best.

They met at the motel, walked hip-to-hip to the bar for drinks and back to the motel again. On the same floral bedspread pattern they'd seen at least two dozen times, he took her hand. "I don't want to just be a fixture in your favorite motel room, Marci. I want to see you in full sunlight, in the daytime. I want to hear what your laugh sounds like in the park. I want to see how you swim. I want to know how you make love in a camping tent. I love you, Marci."

She had a protocol for situations like this, for those rare occasions when she met someone she _really_ liked and let herself spend too much time with them. First was the smile. She thought it was a bittersweet smile, and maybe to some men's eyes it was. It had never caused her any trouble before. But to Sean Brooks, the smile said, "Awww, how pathetic. What a loser. You fool. You idiot. You pussy whipped fucking _moron_. How amusing."

Second was the squeeze. They were invariably holding her hand when in situations that required use of her protocol, and at this point, after the smile, she would squeeze their hands, holding them tight in her own. _I am here, I am with you, I am hearing you and feeling you._ But to Sean, the squeeze was condescending and forced.

He broke the protocol. He squeezed back, hard. Harder. Was he doing this on purpose. "Sean? Sean, that hurts -"

"_Nooo_!" Sean roared right into her face, squeezing harder still, his face turning instantly beet-red. One of her fingers popped loudly, but she couldn't wrangle her hand away to see if it was broken. It hurt too much, and he wouldn't loosen that grip. "Do you know what fucking _hurts,_ Marcella? Do you?"

"Yes, my fucking _hand_! Let me go, you fucking creep!"

"Big mistake, Marci!" He gave her a hard yank in his direction. Her wrist ached, sudden and intense.

He'd ranted and raved like that, slapping her, hitting her, shouting vileness and droplets of spit directly into her face. She fought back at first, being as loud as she could be, sure that someone would hear and help her. She underestimated the other tenants' devotion to privacy. Sean had blacked both her eyes and raped her before the first complaint to the front desk was made.

He hadn't meant to kill her. A hard punch to her temple, and he thought she was knocked out. He'd paced the floor, trying to think of what to say, feeling horribly guilty, knowing he should leave before she woke up but not willing to let go. He was thinking of cleaning up the blood, buckling her into his front seat, and bringing her to his house so he could _think..._ when she sprang up and startled him. She stared at him, her eyes somehow blank and wild all at once. Slowly, almost mechanically, she'd approached him in a strange crawl-climb-slip combination across the smooth bedspread.

He'd backed away, stammering her name until he'd run into the TV and dresser behind him. "Marci, are you OK, honey? Listen, I..."

She fell off the end of the bed, but it didn't matter. He was only about sixteen inches away and she took bites out of him from feet to face as she used his body to pull herself up and stand. He managed to push her away, confused and in pain and absolutely terrified, and made his way as far as the door, which he opened and promptly fainted halfway out of, where he bled profusely from the neck until help arrived.

Marcella stumbled over the fallen Sean and caught sight of a homeless man in the wooded area across the parking lot, who seemed to consume all her attention. She hobbled after him, though he never knew anything but that he thought he heard something behind him a couple of times. She fell into a well that was haphazardly covered with sheet-metal next to the burned remains of a very old and nearly forgotten house that had once belonged to the motel owner's great-great-grandmother, and was never of any consequence to anyone again.


	3. Chapter 2

Marcus Smith had been in love with Maddy Newland since ninth grade. And it wasn't just her big, angelic brown eyes or the way she was chubby in all the right places. It wasn't even all about the way her full, luminous brown hair had natural highlights of mahogany and honey blond.

In fact, it was mostly about a presentation she'd given in freshman debate, an argument in which she had put a rival school's debate captain directly into his place in the most graceful display of intelligence and sass he'd ever seen. And they both loved the band, Avenged Sevenfold. And the fact that she could kick every last one of their asses in a game of Sorcerer's Glenn.

He had a rival in this love, and he knew it. Robbie Petropoulos, not as big a brain as Marcus but ten times the athelete and not exactly stupid. He didn't know if Robbie had been into Maddy as long as he had, because Robbie had only started casting those disgusting, blue-eyed, sideways glances and red-cheeked smiles her way since about a week ago, and it could have been because a week ago was one week til graduation and Robbie knew Maddy would finally be allowed to date.

And really, what did that matter? Robbie could have loved Maddy from birth as far as Marcus cared. He'd spent most of high school writing a poem about her and the past two weeks copying it onto expensive stationery in perfect calligraphy, and tonight, as soon as he had a moment alone with her, he was going to give it to her. What timing could be better than at their graduation party amongst their closest friends?

He watched her, almost breathless, as she shuffled her deck. She would win, of course. She nearly always won at Sorcerer's Glenn. She had the best cards of anyone there, and it wasn't just that - she was _good_. Marcus had only beaten her twice in the four years they'd been playing. He hadn't enjoyed it, either, but she was the kind of girl who'd know if you let her win, and she wouldn't appreciate it.

To his left sat Ciji, fellow brain and salutatorian to Marcus's valedictorian. She was a short, thin girl with wide brown eyes and a deep ebony complexion. She wore cute little wire-frame glasses and Marcus could easily see why Wynn liked her so much, but he'd never really thought of her that way. She was an old friend, since second grade, and they'd always been close because they'd always been the smartest two kids in their grade.

Next to Ciji, holding tightly to her hand with both their forearms resting on her leg, her boyfriend, Wynn. Nothing to shake a stick at academically, but more of a music geek than anything. He was a genius on a set of drums, and he'd been first chair in the marching band's clarinet section for as long as Marcus could remember.

He thought dreamily about how soon it would be himself and Maddy holding hands, his forearm perhaps daring to rest on the softness of her thigh. A kiss, maybe, if she'd let him get away with it tonight.

He was lost in starry-eyed romance when Maddy slapped the table just under him with a tinkling little giggle. "You with us, Marcus?"

He smiled at her. "Yeah, I'm ready when y'all are."

"It's Wynn's house, he goes first!" Maddy answered cheerfully.

Marcus could only gaze at her and try to imagine ways in which he might place them alone together sooner than later. That poem was burning a hole into his pocket. He had to give it to her as soon as possible.

They were halfway through their game when something snapped Marcus very abruptly out of his daydreams. He'd barely paid attention to the game itself, let alone what was going on at the table around him. He was in a very blissful part of his imagination in which he'd worked up the courage to slip Maddy the poem under the table, and she'd read it under the table just as secretly, and surprised everyone when she'd jumped up and wrapped her arms around Marcus and...

Suddenly, something wasn't right. He was jolted back into reality. He looked around, trying to understand what it was, and then it jumped right out at him, the most obvious thing in the world.

Maddy was next to him, smiling a very sheepish smile. Next to her was Robbie, his cheeks red, his eyes cast downward, and they were _holding hands_. Right there in front of him.

It was all he could do not to gasp, "WHAT THE FUCK?" right out loud. Had he really been that spaced out? Had he been so in denial all this time that he'd seen Robbie's smiles and glances to Maddy but never noticed she was reciprocating them? When had this happened? What had he missed? What the _actual fuck_?

He was shaking. He knew he'd gone pale because everyone was looking at him strangely. He stood up slowly. "I'm out. I don't feel well. I need to go home."

"Marcus, please?" Maddy's voice. Like she fuckin' cared.

"At least let me drive you home, man." Wynn this time.

"Thanks, man, I'll walk." His jaw set, his hands clenched into fists. He walked out the door.

His house was only a half mile down this little backwoods highway. He needed the time to blow off steam. He knew they knew what had upset him. He was too embarrassed to go back and apologize and just enjoy the graduation party. He didn't think he could stand being around Robbie and Maddy, anyway, seeing them hold hands and god only knew what else.

He picked up rocks off the side of the road and threw them as hard as he could. Hard enough that they threw little sparks when the hit the pavement. Some of them cracked in two. He'd hear one piece fly to one side and the other hit all the way across the street, and it felt good. Better, at least.

He didn't hear the big '68 Chevy coming around the curve, and certainly did not know it had a brand new paint job, cerulean blue with silver flecks. It was a loud truck, but he was just too lost in his anger, too caught up throwing rocks and cursing Robbie under his breath. He didn't notice until he heard his rock bounce off the hood and fly into a tree. He thought about ducking off into the trees, but he wasn't even sure they'd even stop and didn't want to get eaten alive by mosquitos or lost. He didn't generally go out of his way to associate with anyone who drove a big truck with a Confederate flag graphic on the back glass, but maybe they'd just keep going.

For a few seconds, they did. Then they hit the brakes so hard they squealed and tiny pebbles spewed from under the tires.

A woman, just shy of six feet tall with a mullet and her front four teeth missing, got out of the driver's seat. She had kill in her eyes. She started toward him.

He was stammering a clumsy, "I'm sorry, ma'am, it wasn't on purpose, I just -" when a big burly fellow with a bushy black beard and one hell of a beer gut slipped out behind her.

"Well, look-ee here," said the bearded fellow.

"Look-eeeee heeeere," agreed the woman with a devilish smile.

The passenger's side door opened. A third voice, raspy but _deep_, boomed, "What is it? Look at what?" followed by a deep, hacking cough. An even bigger, burlier man, but older, with a long gray beard and a _lot_ of prison tattoos walked around the truck, inspecting the hood carefully as walked, looking annoyed and yet genuinely curious.

_Oh fuck. A truckload of rednecks._ Marcus stood frozen to the spot.

"Oh!" The old man again. "I see! Well, boy, you done dented the hood of my daughter's truck."

"Look, Mister, I didn't mean to. I can pay for the damage, if you'll just -"

"What the _name of God_ is wrong with you, boy. I didn't ask you to speak." Gray Beard. This "boy" thing was starting to worry Marcus. That with the flag on the back window didn't seem a good sign.

"I'm sorry, sir, I -"

He didn't get to finish. The old man had him by the nape of his neck and was dragging him over to the car. "You're goddang right you're gonna pay for it, boy. You're gonna pay for that _and_ for speaking out of turn! Now, look at the dent!" The old man was insanely strong for his age. He slammed Marcus's face down so hard on the hood of the car that he chipped his front tooth and cut his chin. "Do you see it, boy? Do you fucking see it?"

Marcus didn't answer. Wrong move. He slammed his face down again. Blood poured from his chin.

"You better answer when he's talkin' to you!" the woman managed in the midst of peels of laughter. The black beard man just stood there with his hand on her ass, grinning like a retarded gorilla.

His face hit the hood a third time. The rest of the tooth crumbled. "Yes, sir," he sobbed. Just breathing sent shots of jolting pain through what little was left of his tooth.

"Good!" The old man threw him to the ground. The envelope fell out at his feet. The woman, just inches away, apparently could read.

"Maddy Newland? Hey, that's my cousin!"

Gray Beard was over in a flash. "What's it say, Skunky?"

"It's a damn love poem!" she almost shouted.

"You nasty buck sonofabitch!" The old man was screaming. "You ain't getting your goddamn monkey paws on _none_ of my kin! Hold him, Elroy!" He tossed Marcus like an empty beer can right into his companion's arms. Elroy grabbed on tight around Marcus's arms and chest, laughing at his futile efforts to slip away. Skunky kicked him square in the balls and she and Elroy had a good laugh about it.

Her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree when she saw what Gray Beard was retreiving from the chrome tool box on her truck bed. "Oh, Daddy, really?" she beamed.

Marcus threw up when he saw it. A hangman's noose.

He kicked and tried his best to scream with Elroy's massive, hairy hand clamped tight over his aching mouth. Elroy only responded by squeezing him tighter and mumbling, "Fuckin' coon blood all over my new jeans..." They brought him just a few feet into the woods, just far enough to find a good, strong tree.

The drop when Elroy let go of him with the rope around his neck was not hard enough to kill him. While he asphyxiated, the three stood around him and watched. The old man laughed and stuffed the now-crumpled poem into his mouth, replacing it roughly every time it fell from Marcus's gaping jaw. Skunky and Elroy giggled and pawed away at each other like a couple of horny teenagers.

Like Maddy and Robbie. The two of them were the last image in his mind before the world went black.

The old man gave a heartfelt nod. Elroy muttered a polite, "Good work, Ross. Good work, all of us." Skunky skipped all the way back to the truck.

Back at Wynn's house, Maddy was winning at Sorcerer's Glenn and they were all trying to think of a way to cheer Marcus up tomorrow so they could spend their last Summer together as friends.


End file.
